Home
by Birchbud
Summary: Everything was wrapped in stillness. The house’s permanence rattled her, and she was almost afraid to move lest she upset it. She could hear crying in the kitchen: muffled, low sobs.


The grass was so long that it looked as if the house was sinking; a lonely little place drowning in weeds and overgrown hedges. Autumn wind tugged the dying lawn violently back-and-forth and sent leaves spiraling down to rest in the waves. Little had changed though: same white paint (well, chipped a bit), same windows (although clouded and closed), same vertical wooden paneling coated in vines (they'd grown thicker, of course). She was relieved—change was a scenario she hadn't rehearsed before heading home.

She waded through the yard and paused with one foot perched on the door-step. Insects buzzed overtop glass panels on either side of the door, waddling and twittering beneath cobwebs. Even the front entrance was the same. A snow-shovel leaned against the side of the house, a metal bell jutted out from the wall, and a basket of rocks sat beside a frayed 'welcome' mat. She opened the door and felt loss. It came slowly, as if the cold sky was bursting with sadness and falling onto her shoulders, sinking deep into her skin.

Everything was frozen except for spiders and dust. Blue-tinged twilight spilled onto the landing, outlining a pile of forgotten shoes. To her right, a pen and ink picture hung from chicken-wire. "I drew that," she thought. Her drawing, her past. Her home.

It had all bundled up, a black knot of memories, and she'd tried for years to untangle it before deciding that it was just easier to swallow the grief than to spit it out and expose it to the world in all its nakedness.

Two staircases branched off from the landing; one led to the basement, the other to the main floor. Downstairs was swaddled in shadows—blackness clung to the hallway, sliding up the banister to touch her hand. Everything was wrapped in stillness; the house's permanence rattled her, and she was almost afraid to move lest she upset it. She could hear crying in the kitchen: muffled, low sobs.

It was as if she'd never left. The black knot rose in her throat into a painful lump. She could be fifteen, fresh from a battle, welcomed home by her mother's sorrow. With heavy steps she followed the pained cries and ended up at the kitchen's doorway, one hand braced on its rotting wooden frame.

Her mother's back was facing her. The woman was perched on a wooden chair, her body curled into itself: shoulders hunched, legs folded up, arms crossed, hands balled into fist tucked anxiously into her sides. Yellow light streamed over the horizon, through the window's glass and onto her hair, lighting up long, gray strands—it had grown, nearly reaching her elbows. She was wearing one of her striped knitted sweaters—a navy blue one.

Her mother hadn't moved for all those years, and even as the daughter stood still by the doorway she didn't budge; only her shoulders rose and fell in time with her dry sobs.

"Hi mom."

Time restarted. Immediately the cries ceased, though a steady 'drip, drip' of tears still splashed against the kitchen table. Slowly, she uncurled her fists, unfurled her limbs, and achingly stood up, supporting herself with one hand on the table, one on the back of her chair. Then she turned around.

Kagome was prepared for sorrow, or fear, or maybe even anger. But the wrinkled mouth was twisted into a smile and her eyes shone bright with joy. Tears still slid down her sagging face—it must be hard to stop crying after you've done it for so long.

The memories all crowded together again: the happy ones, the awful ones, into one big heap. She wasn't going to run again. _'Please God let it pass,' _she said, as guilt slammed into her. _'Let it pass,'_ as she tried to step towards her mother only to find her feet stuck to the floor. _'Let it pass,'_ as the knot she'd been carrying unfurled into black spider-webs pulling at tight her insides. _'God,'_ she prayed, but stood her ground before her mother as tears streamed down her face.

And, little by little, the pressure eased. The sticky strings of memories dissolved, one hurt at a time, until she felt as emptier than the woman before her.

Her mother spoke. "I made you tea." The words were whispered and coarse. Then she stared at the kettle—it sat on a cold burner coated in rust—and looked lost as to why it wasn't screeching. "I made you tea…" her words wobbled unsteadily on her lips; she was growing confused, sad, and her legs were shaking violently.

Years ago Kagome would have gotten angry at the her. Years ago, the daughter would have closed off her heart and walked away from her mother's pain. Now, though, she seemed so frail that instinctively the daughter rushed over and embraced her. "It's okay mom." The gray hair was coarse and knotted against her hands as she rubbed her mom's back: up and down, up and down. "Sit, momma. It's okay. I'm back."

The old woman sunk into her chair. She was withered like an gnarled tree, scraggly and bent, trying to hold its ground against the wind and ready to fall. "I was so sad when you left, honey." Madness fogged up her eyes. "I was so sad that I cried, but now you're back. Though I haven't quite kept up with the housework. I hope you don't mind."

"Of course I don't mind." The daughter took a seat beside the sick woman and held one of her hands in her lap, stroking the wrinkled skin. Just like old times.

The mother's smile faded. "Why did you leave me?"

Dark memories pushed against the walls, lurked in the shadows and cupboards. _'Because I was a child,' _she wished she could say. _'Because I found a well and then grew up.' _ "I'm sorry, mom." She was.

"Your brother did too, and your father. But I knew you'd come back. My baby. Forever my baby." Her thin voice was warm with love. So many years—enough for her daughter to leave home, build a life, and then leave it. "So I made tea for you, like I used to after school… do you remember that? You had your little backpack nanny sent you." The smile returned. "And then tea and toast, and after that we'd sit on the deck." She paused. For a moment, she looked _normal_, alert, as if she had managed to claw her way out of insanity want was seeing the world for the first time. Then she shivered and the lost look contorted her face once more. "Remember?"

"Of course I remember."

"Well honey, I'm glad you're back." There it was: the love leaking out from cracks in the madness. She didn't run from it again. Because really, that love was more terrifying than the demons, the fires, the war, and a million other sad stories. It would never fade like the memories—never dull with time and age. It would lay forever inside her mother, inside the house, inside herself, bonding them together.

A sigh of resignation, an deep breath—acceptance. Patience. It wouldn't be long now. "Yeah." The daughter smiled. "Would you like some tea?"

The colours had drained from the sky; the kitchen was dim, lit up with the streetlights' yellow rays. In the valley spreading below their house on the hilltop sparkling city lights held night at bay. As they sipped stale tea the daughter saw her mother in herself: the same posture, same gestures, same bone structure. Same bones. "I'll never leave you again mom,"

'_Not until you die.' _

Patience. Love laid ghosts to rest, after all those years. "I love you mom," for the first time since the end of the war. For the first time since the well closed. For the first time since Inuyasha died.

For the first time since she returned.

Fear fled as the woman laughed.


End file.
